


The Abyss Gazes Also

by FishSlapper



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Altered Backstory, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Basically doing whatever the fuck I feel like, But that's okay because Dan's different too, Dream Sequences, Eventual Smut, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Other, Rorschach's going to fuck it up though, Second Chances, Slow Build, Spacetime travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Timey Wimey Bullshit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-25 12:59:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4961536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FishSlapper/pseuds/FishSlapper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dan died at Karnak: right in front of Rorschach. It was enough of a shock to wake Walter Kovacs from his decade slumber. When Jon raised his hand a second time, Walter soon discovered that he hadn't died as well, but been sent back in time.</p><p>To be more specific, Manhattan sent Walter to another dimension. One where Sylvia had that abortion. One where he didn't exist. But there's no way his absence could've caused the changes in Nite Owl. That just wasn't logical. Walter was a nobody; nothing in his life should've affected the Nite Owl of before they met. And yet...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Death of a Detective

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. Some of you probably recognize this fic from the kinkmeme. I've been debating for some time whether or not to do this. In the end, the clincher was Ao3's system. I get tired of seeing mistakes riddling my work right after I've posted the damn thing and being unable to update it. This is a fresh account, so I'll still feel the safety of anonymity, but this way I'll be able to edit my work as I please.
> 
> The inspiring prompt: http://spam-monster.livejournal.com/2617.html?thread=4777017#t4777017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing ever ends, but sometimes something must end for something new to begin.

An awakening is a slow, yet abrupt and cruel process. Rorschach’s birth had been years in the making; every crime, every death, pressing at Kovacs’ consciousness, incubating Rorschach’s presence and influence. Then a night of blood and fire cleansed him of the need to face it all the way he had been. The birth of Rorschach allowed him to live with his back to the world.

But Walter Kovacs did not die that night, like he had thought. He merely went into hibernation. A deep trance from which he may never have woken, shouldn’t have awoken from. There were moments, brief implausible moments, where Kovacs surfaced unbeknownst to both personalities: “You quit.” “Not in front of civilians.” “You are… a good friend.” Sleep talk, nothing more.

Rorschach was born in fire. Ironic that he would die in ice.

Adrian Veidt, Ozymandias, the “world’s smartest man,” had destroyed New York. Had destroyed the world, really. Destroyed what it was, what gave Rorschach purpose for being, with a grand lie. With a joke. Curtains.

He wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted when he left for Owlship. “Never compromise. Not even in the face of Armageddon.” Maybe that was it, but it felt like a lie even on his own tongue.

Snow. Cold. It didn’t bother him. Rorschach was free from weakness, just as he was free from fear or lust.

But Rorschach had died with the city, leaving only a walking corpse in its place.

Brilliant detective though he was, he had not noticed Daniel follow him out. Too preoccupied with other matters to observe something so obvious. He had assumed Daniel would remain behind with the other compromiser (and possibly fornicate or something equally disturbing). He had not expected him to follow. Hadn’t realized he’d wanted him to follow. Hadn’t realized he didn’t want him to see what was bound to happen. What was always bound to happen.

Rorschach was free from fear and weakness and lust, but Rorschach was dead now.

The corpse stood in the snow, wearing two death masks. Weariness of life shown in the rough edges of the second while the abyss gazing from the first. Shambling hands slipped off the first skin, and he waited for God to shed his second.

“Do it.” He had said, echoing Daniel, echoing Veidt, echoing the death of the city and thus the death of Rorschach. It was only natural that the body should follow suit.

“Do it!”

But Daniel…

Even though it was futile. Even though he had no reason. No logical, rational reason. Even though Walter Kovacs and Rorschach were both dead. He walked, with breathtaking calmness that even his corpse had not exhibited ( _tears burned flesh in frozen air_ ), and stood between God and Death.

There’s no way Manhattan hadn’t seen it coming. The man existed, experienced, every point of his time as a constant. But he still let it happen. He still killed Daniel right before his eyes.

There was a brief instant of denial, of silence. Then the world was drowned in sound. A volcanic eruption of pain. It took him a moment to realize it was him who was screaming.

It was Walter.

The shock of loss, of which had put him to sleep ten years ago, was also what brought him back. “Nothing ends. Nothing ever ends.” He’s not sure where the thought comes from, but it seemed immensely appropriate. Might’ve been Manhattan. Might’ve been Rorschach’s last death rattle.

There was nothing left. He had never had much in life, hadn’t cared for more than he could hold, but now there was nothing. No Rorschach, no New York, no Daniel. There was nothing left.

There was only the abyss staring back.

If he had been paying attention, if he had cared, he would have noticed a beast of yellow had appeared on the scene. She was crying against the monster of blue. Words floated through the air, but he could hear nothing beyond his own sobs. The cold seeped through his knees (doesn’t remember falling to his knees, it doesn’t matter), wet and numbing. His cheeks hurt, stained with moisture freezing in the air (tears and blood, _Daniel’s blood_ ), but also twisted into expression, something it had not done in over a decade.

Human instinct brought movement to his attention. He understood what it meant. Found peace in its meaning; its potential.

Here comes the arm…

&&&

 **Darkness.** No more cold. No more pain.

An apparition stood before him. _Blurry. **Surreal.**_

“Why did you do it? Why die for me?”

“Because you were wrong.”

Wrong about what? Everything? It could mean anything. It could mean whatever he chose to impose upon it.

Unwilling to face the implications ( _hypocrite_ ), he turned from the melding apparition (black on black, like a broken Rorschach blot), and jumped into the abyss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally two seconds after posting this I found a mistake and immediately fixed it. I'm feeling better about doing this already.


	2. Rebirth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walter tries and fails to understand what's going on. It probably doesn't help that dimension/time traveling (and age reversal) isn't a natural occurrence and it's bound to have an effect on the body involved. He does manage to overcome an important hurdle however: Rorschach's mask.

A pretty butterfly. Red plumage inked with thick black lines. Feather-light upon his nose.

Consciousness came to him in waves. Eyes opened, but body was stiff like sleep paralysis. A deep exhale sent the butterfly fluttering into the sky. A beautiful blue spackled with painted clouds. Red on white on blue.

Gut-wrenching memories his mind had initially refused to process ripped viciously into his awareness. _Nite Owl’s blood on snow killed by a man with blue skin._ He forced himself, through the pain, through the stiffness, to sit up. Breaths were hard to take, but he had to get up, had to—

It wasn’t cold. His skin came to life moments before his eyes translated the absurd visual input. There was a slight chill, absolutely, but it was not the freezing bite of Antarctica. It was more like an early spring breeze in New York. Indeed what flooded his senses was not a vast wasteland of bloodied ice, but an urban jungle of tall buildings and endless noise.

His hands moved instinctually to his face, and found the mask absent ( _that’s right it’s just a mask now_ ). Flesh on flesh, he pulled at the stiffness in an attempt to loosen it ( _he lost it a long time ago_ ). Languid movement in his peripheries brought his attention to where the mask rested, abandoned. He didn’t want to pick it up. Not yet. He didn’t feel worthy of it.

He attempted to organize his thoughts, his memories, his senses, into something useful, into a network of connections that made sense.

_Teleportation? Seems unlikely. Only explanation. Unless this is afterlife? Had assumed there was none. If this is what the pharaohs looked forward to: disappointing._

He found himself wondering if whatever happened to him had also happened to Daniel. Had he merely been teleported as well, the blood a side effect or ruse? A cursory inspection showed a distinct lack of copious amounts of (fresh) blood like what had been left in the snow drenching his own clothes. Or if this was indeed the afterlife, was Daniel wandering these very streets? Or was it an isolationist sort of deal, where everyone garnered their own reality? Or their own nightmare. He figured if there was a heaven or hell, Daniel, while the man was many things, would not find himself in Hell’s pits.

He found himself hoping he could run into Daniel here. Hope. That wasn’t something Walter was known for. Rorschach had possessed a degree of it during his lifetime: both before and after his true birth. _Nothing is hopeless. Not while there’s life._

He groaned within his throat, letting the rumble clear it of blockage. It was hard to think with his thoughts so disseminated. His head was a mess. He knew he wasn’t Rorschach, not anymore. He was certain of that fact. But the person in the snow, sniveling like a child, that had been Walter, hadn’t it?

The city murmured with life behind him. The mask stared up at him accusingly.

Rorschach was dead now, leaving only Walter Kovacs in this skin. And what a surprise that had been, for his consciousness to still exist within. He could see it now, with fuzzy certainty, with blurry hindsight, but it still left him dazed. He flexed his fingers before his eyes, marveling at the control. Ligaments and bones and cartilage working in unison all under his knowing manipulation. A feeling not dissimilar to the first time he won a practice boxing match back at Charlton Home: _I did that. That was me._

The memories of the last ten years were still present, but it was like watching a movie through his own eyes. He understood what happened, the thought processes behind his actions, but he no longer felt a personal connection to them. Like he no longer held responsibility for those desperate years.

 _Ridiculous._ He thought to himself. _Should not lose perspective simply because it’s easier to stomach. Dissonance does not remove responsibility._ Thoughts of Veidt’s smug smile while lording over a pile of corpses curled his own lips. _Does not absolve guilt._

Feeling was steadily returning to his body. Pins and needles faded as his circulatory system resumed routine function. Stiffness melded into smooth energy. It was time to move: time to investigate.

Which meant standing up, but for the first time since childhood he lacked the perseverance the task required. Even before he was Kovacs pretending to be Rorschach, in his early teens—no, ever since his face was splattered with fruit and a cigarette found its way into a boy’s eye—he had stubbornly pressed his body to exceed its limits, exceed its weaknesses, to fight back. His obstinacy had only increased when he became Rorschach in earnest, outright ignoring his body’s numerous protests. Only maintaining a necessary modicum to function.

He hadn’t been Kovacs in ten years. Hadn’t been Walter for years before that. He didn’t know how to be Walter now that he was awake again. He had never liked himself much; always too stubborn, too selfish, too ugly, too lonely, too scared, too weak—

 _Stop thinking. Start moving._ He needed to know where he was, what exactly had happened, and what he was going to do about it. Something, anything, to focus on that he could dedicate body and not mind to.

Inhale of polluted air. Muscles protested the movement, but he forced them to work properly over a span of minutes, goal in mind. Eventually he was standing. It took an additional couple of minutes to gather up courage he needed to pick up the mask. He couldn’t wear it, not right now, but he would not leave it behind. It deserved a better burial than to be picked at by birds on a rooftop ( _wouldn’t that have been fitting though?_ ).

The mask went in one of the coat’s pockets, shoved in hastily. Walter couldn’t stand to look at the bloodstain for too long. The smell wasn’t a problem, physical discomfort wasn’t either, but the blood ( _old and fresh_ ) threatened to split his head in two.

He wasn’t willing to walk the streets in broad daylight with Rorschach’s full attire without the mask. It was a pointless instinct, if teleportation was the correct hypothesis then it would matter little because Walter’s face was now known to the world. Still, the scarf was hidden around his waist under the coat, all buttons looped, belt pulled taut (his hat had been lost in Antarctica, the only piece of him keeping Daniel company in the snow). It wasn’t much, but perhaps it would be enough to ward off Jyestha.

He led himself down the roof via the fire escape (a feat that seemed easier now than it had in years) and emerged from the shadows into “paradise”. There were no gold bricks lining the streets and the buildings were not wrested upon thick fluffy clouds or corporeal rainbows. The sun shined at mid-afternoon and the pedestrians looked as apathetic as ever as they passed one another in their daily life of decadence.

He held no true destination in mind, simply walked wherever his feet fell. Everything was a blur, a haze of heat. Repressed emotions and accompanying memories constantly clawing at his conscious with increasing fervor, each fighting for their right to bring him to pieces. Knowledge sat underneath the surface, but he felt far too punch-drunk to focus on more than keeping one foot in front of the other.

He almost missed it in the haze. Almost missed something so painfully obvious and disarming. His legs understood before his mind did, had known where to walk and how to get here and where his next turn was to be… He knew this street.

He took off in a run ( _to right is… then straight for two blocks, then left around the corner is…_ ) until he was standing, unable to breathe the air his lungs so desperately needed, beneath his apartment building.

He was in Manhattan. No one was dead. Nothing was burning or rotting more than usual. Either Veidt had lied, miscalculated, or simple teleportation was out of the equation.

&&&

He found himself standing inside of his apartment, unsure exactly how he got there. The open window was a likely answer, but it didn’t alleviate the dread of dissonance he felt with physicality right then.

It was his apartment. Walls exactly where they should be. Stain on the ceiling that had been there when he moved in. Window and door placements matched up. Sink. Cabinets. Wallpaper.

But his spare signs were gone. What minimum of furniture Rorschach decided to keep was gone, replaced with alien sculptures of tables. There was a little food in some of the cabinets, but it was nothing he had ever bought for himself. A couple months ago a leak had started up, soaking the ceiling and dripping down onto the tiles below, eroding it like pruned fingers; that was gone too. The board Rorschach had loosened to store his spare outfit and final journal was stiff and stuck.

The small mirror that sat above the sink wasn’t shattered with distaste. The faded scar wasn’t present on the associated hand. His face was less weary, more youthful, than it had been in years. It was less hard, wrinkles yet to form around the eyes and mouth from years of work and abuse.

He pilfered a box of granola bars, only just realizing how hungry he was. He ate four of them in less than two minutes and nibbled on a fifth as he surveyed his options, briefly considered time travel into the future where the city was rebuilt in image. His musings were cut short as he heard footsteps approach his door. Keys jangled threateningly. Muscle memory positioned him behind the door, waiting, although he wondered if perhaps he should run instead. He wasn’t wearing Rorschach’s face; he was Walter now. The door opened. The door closed. Bodies thrown to the floor. One hand to throat, one to arm. The body beneath him cried out in surprise.

“Who the hell are you?!” The man screamed. The hand around his arm tightened and turned. “Nng… what? What do you want with me?”

“What are you doing here?” It sounded so wrong. He’d only meant it to be threatening, but it came out more like Rorschach’s growl. Adrenaline had begun to pump through his veins proper now, filling his limbs with energy and sapping him of restraint.

“What?” High-pitched. There were no footsteps outside the door, no worried shouting. The neighbors don’t care. No matter how loud he screamed, no one would save him. Instinct wrenched the arm further. “Gahhh! What do you mean what am I doing here? I live here, man! This is my apartment!”

“What?” He barely heard his own whispered disbelief. It was obvious, really, especially given the hideous furniture, but his mental processing wasn’t quite at the level he was used to. “What do you mean this is _your_ apartment?”

“Huh?” The man was obviously just as confused. “Do you have the wrong guy or something?”

He’s chilled with trepidation. Someone else lived here. This wasn’t his apartment.

A sharp series of rasps against the door startled him out of his reverie. “Mr. Calvin, what’s going on in there?” He knew that voice and wasn’t Calvin the last name of the tenant who—

“I’m fine, Ms. Shairp!” Shairp. It was the landlady. She sounded less weary and raspy than he remembered. “I went and tripped on that goddamn carpet again.”

“Well, be careful honey! You were making an awful lot of racket.”

“I know. I’m sorry. It just hurts like hell.” Calvin motioned towards his wrenched arm. Walter was still on edge, but took the hint and moved the arm to a less painful position, maintaining a distrustful glare. “I’m fine though. Sorry for the disturbance.”

“Alright. Just take care of yourself, sweetie.” The footsteps receded down the hallway.

“Look,” Calvin was addressing him now, “I’m not exactly rich so there’s nothing for you to steal.” Walter couldn’t help growling at the insinuation. “So I can only assume this is something personal, but I ain’t the guy you’re looking for. I mean, I have no idea who you are!”

It was hard to speak through the cotton in his mouth, but eventually he managed a vaguely threatening, “Charles Calvin?”

Fear lit up in his victim’s eyes. “Oh crap. You are looking for me? Why? What the hell d’I do?”

“Nothing.” His voice wanted to squeak, but he pulverized it into gravel. “Nothing.” He repeated as he stood up, trying to quell the trembling that was beginning in his skin.

“Oh good, for a second there I thought—then how’d you know my full name? Wait, where are you going?”

He had to get away. Had to find somewhere- somewhere to just think for a while. To set everything up. To tear it all down. Too much. There was just too much input, too much conflicting information,

He needed a sounding board, but his journal had been mailed and Nite Owl was MIA but Charles Calvin was the name of—

Once again he’d left his feet to do his wandering and once again they picked up a trail he knew well enough. The quickest path through public streets between Rorschach’s apartment and Daniel’s brownstone. He’d walked the first leg of the path many times: his preferred newspaper stand halfway between the two locations. He’d already passed the stand in his haze and found himself tracking a path through streets too rich for him.

He stopped abruptly as he realized this. Part of him wanted to finish the unintended journey, for Daniel to be there like nothing had changed ( _everything had changed_ ). Fear kept him grounded, made him run back into more decrepit avenues, into an empty alley, made him climb the rooftop to escape from the world. Logic dictated that Daniel would not be there. Dead at Karnak, wandering a separate afterlife, teleported somewhere else entirely, another time, a refugee from the law (on the run with Ms. Juspeczyk no doubt); Daniel would not be in his brownstone. Nite Owl was dead in the snow.

His breathing was becoming uncontrollable, too fast, too short, heartbeat thudding painfully in his chest. He needed the world to make sense. It had been easy when he was Rorschach. By understanding what the world was truly like, knowing that there was a right and wrong behind everything, that everything had an answer ( _n_ _othing is insoluble_ ), life had been simple. Here there were too many impertinent questions and no forthcoming answers and too much fear immobilizing his movements and too much fuzz eating away at his brain. Nothing felt right. Nothing felt real. Nothing made sense.

 &&&

_“Rorschach.”_

_Body heavy. Listless comfort kept him still. Repetition: “Rorschach.” A grunt of dismissal. He just wanted to sleep. A light weight rested on his shoulders. Nerves fired and his body registered that this was not a dream. He can feel the latex sticking to his head and realized he may be in trouble; his neurons start encoding his fight or flight response. Then the weight pushed, lightly, followed by another much more clear, “Hehe, guess you’re exhausted, huh? Not that I can blame you. Come on, you **asked** me to wake you up, buddy.”_

_Coat stiff from cold, he managed to twist his body into a sitting position. A groggy groan escaped before he could realize what it was. Daniel smiled warmly at him._

_“It’s six o’clock, like I promised. Good thing I asked or else you’d still be counting sheep in dreamland.” There’s a playful twitch in Daniel’s lips,_

_A light hum of agreement that held little place in Rorschach’s bass. He was too sleepy for this. “Thank you.” He managed through his haze, realizing the need for a wake-up call extended from needing to be at work in two hours._

_He took Daniel’s proffered hand, taking it more to feel the pressure and connection than any need for aid. Archie blazed with light in the background, floating with sentience. He knew of Walter’s sins._

_Daniel turned and made for the stairs, tossing a lighthearted if insistent, “Think I could interest you in some breakfast before you take off?”_

_His stomach nipped at him bitterly at the thought of a warm meal and he relented. “I might be able to find the time.”_

_A flirtatious wink from Daniel as he vanished in the frame of the stairwell. There were no sounds of feet ascending, no arms trailing the walls for contact (not aid). No, the body simply vanished in thin air, and Rorschach paid the detail no mind._

_Archie roared petulantly, like a child sickened by their parent’s talking sweet in front of them. The windows narrowed, disgust obvious in its features. It huffed angrily and Rorschach juxtaposed the image with a bull readying for charge._

_“Does oatmeal sound good?” Daniel called from the kitchen. “I still have one package of brown sugar flavor left if it does.”_

_Rorschach found himself reclined at one of the kitchen chairs. A mixing bowl filled the brim with oatmeal was placed in the middle of the table, a spoon passed to Rorschach. “Bon appetit.” Daniel joked and took a messy spoonful to his own mouth. It dribbled down his chin and onto his shirt. He went to wipe it off and his forgotten spoon sunk into the bowl. It smudged against his white shirt in a symmetrical pattern. A solid figure eight. A pair of owl eyes._

_Archie groaned from the basement as Walter watched, a warm feeling heating up his chest cavity at Daniel’s humored laugh. “Oh well.” Daniel said. He rubbed off the bit on his chin. “Oh well.”_

&&&

Fragments of the dream elongated into semi-wakefulness. Daniel would walk over to the silverware drawer, pluck a new spoon from its cavity, close it with a bump of his hip, and return to try again. He wouldn’t just quit. The food would taste warm and strong and filling ( _then why did it taste so bland?_ )

Numbness turned to raw pain as he shifted on the concrete, shattering the illusion. He released a groan of frustration that he had allowed himself to fall asleep so easily, without even realizing it or with intention.

Then again, perhaps it had been necessary for his body to rest and repair after whatever Manhattan had done to him. He certainly felt more normal—well, more level—than before. Less estranged from his own body. The world may no longer make any sense, but at least he understood his own physicality again. Worse places than a rooftop to pass out, he supposed.

No, the dream was by far the more frustrating force. He hadn’t had a domestic dream like that since the Keene Act had shown him Nite Owl’s true face.

Walter had idolized Nite Owl. Respect had turned to adoration when he became Dan Dreiberg. Idle fantasies of a black and white idealist starved of contact and kindness. He’d put the man up on a pedestal sculpted by delusions. Pretended he was the embodiment of good, the white on black, a light in a dark world. _Aren’t moths attracted to the shadows behind the light?_

Daniel was just another imaginary friend of an immature man with no idea how to hold a proper relationship of any kind. He had carved himself into a phony codependent relationship with a make belief figure based off of a real person and he still had no idea which of them was the giver and which the taker.

That dream was based on, drafted from, a memory from decades ago. When they had still been partners. Many details were different, but enough lined up to draw a connection to a specific night.

He had slept on the cot in the basement that night. Daniel had woken him up at a predetermined time. Daniel had smiled after waking him, but it was wary, anxious. He was shameless and had woken him shirtless (something that had haunted Walter for weeks). He doesn’t remember if he had thanked him. Probably not. It was 1974 and Rorschach was about ready to hatch. Food had been offered, but it was done out of politeness, out of apprehension. Archie wasn’t alive and there was one bowl and he was the only one that ate from it. Daniel quit after the Keene Act.

Had it been Rorschach who kept these temptations away? And now that he was without guardian they had returned to torture him? Perhaps that was part of it. His dreams had certainly been preoccupied by other fancies after 1975. There were months that he didn’t remember his dreams at all. Other times he was filled with night terrors that served as fuel for Rorschach.

But no, Walter knew what heralded the return of these snippets of unreality. It was a man in a ridiculous costume walking with a confidence that had never existed in that suit into a path of assured destruction. Such an action was out of character for the cowardly man. Barely put up a fight against Adrian. Stuttered over every other sentence. No shame in awkward phrasing or mistaken social cues or embarrassing tales that had fit in well with Rorschach’s own maladjusted social tendencies, even if some of the tales disgusted him. Yet that man had delayed death for a dying man without, what seemed, a second thought. Walked right into the line of fire with all the poise and strength Walter had only dreamt of.

He could feel his cheeks heat and strain at the memory. Daniel, the Daniel he’d always imagined, had existed for all of thirty seconds before dying right in front of him. Tears threatened to break his melancholy. His body may have been righted, but his mind was still a tangle of mire.

It was twilight, he noticed. Distantly he had recognized the dim lighting, slight decadence of life signs from the city, and eventually his eyes registered the gray expanse canvasing the sky. A distinct full moon peeked out behind psychedelic clouds; bright and full of promise.

The night was Rorschach’s domain. His fingers itched to pull the mask out, to cover his face; his face itched for its comforting presence as well. Swallowing, he shut his eyes against the world.

Sounds reverberated from below. Rustling in the alleyway on the side with the fire escape. Laughing. Walter knew those sounds, understood the nuances behind them. Young adults, high off something, radiating aggression. They were looking for a fight. Rorschach would have been tempted to give it to them.

Walter wasn’t sure what he wanted to do. He didn’t want to pick a fight in the midst of a mysterious situation ( _too many possibilities, unwillingness to discard teleportation_ ) without his mask, but he still wasn’t sure if he deserved to wear the mask now that Rorschach was dead. It’d be like wearing another’s skin.

 _Crack._ Apparently they had found their fight before even leaving the alley. Walter couldn’t hear words or pick out distinct sounds or voices from this angle, distance, or out of his fog of disorientation. He just knew there were words being spoken into the air, and that someone was being punched.

Guilt wracked his consciousness. It physically arrested him with stabs of shame. He was the same. If he sat here and let those punks beat down whoever they pleased he would be just like them. Wasn’t that why he had become Rorschach in the first place? Because he had refused to be just like everyone else and apathetically watch a woman get raped and beaten and die without so much as calling the cops? _That_ was what Rorschach stood for. What he represented. Why he was born.

And that’s why Walter donned his mask and became Rorschach once again. He would _not_ become one of those bystanders. He would _not_ let laziness or self-defeat or weakness stop him from helping those who reminded him of himself. He couldn’t save them all, couldn’t save Genovese or Blair Roche or Daniel, but that didn’t mean some other victim should suffer for his failures.

He peered over the edge of the rooftop, assessing as much of the situation he could before leaping down and reaping justice upon the deserving. Small-fry by the looks of them. One opponent. Six to one odds. Quarry wore dark clothes, seemed to be holding their own. Two already downed. Impressive.

Element of surprise useful as always. Gravity even more so. Prepared scarf allowed one quick disable and takedown. A second swiftly joined his friend in the realm of dreams. The rush of endorphins was like coming home.

The would-be victim expertly feinted and knocked out his third ( _that movement looked vaguely familiar_ ). Rorschach had some catching up to do.

Use of lounging garbage bag found itself fittingly placed atop one of their heads. Impact of weight listing him sideways. Impromptu uppercut to another sent him reeling into the victim’s chokehold. Third one dodged, turned, and pinned with little effort. Trash picked itself up, but was easily discarded after using the other as a meat shield and a trash can lid as a blunt object.

Four-four. Acceptable.

He turned to regard the bad choice in victim (Walter always held a respect for those who could fight back against their abusers) and was shocked to the core.

A mask ( _w_ _rong_ ). Reminiscent of an owl ( _no_ ). Familiar body shape and facial structure ( _i_ _t couldn’t be_ ). He moved too confidently ( _t_ _hat can’t be right_ ). His body was fit without being badly proportioned or flabby with fat ( _t_ _hat was wrong, too_ ). But it couldn’t be because he was dead ( _burst in snow_ ) and his costume was different ( _menacing instead of comical_ ) and his voice wasn’t his: “Thanks for the assistance.” ( _And something was **wrong.**_ )

“Name’s Nite Owl. What’s yours?” ( _ **Something was wrong**_ ).

He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t think or believe or—

There was a hand extended in his direction and he knew what it meant. _He knew what it **meant.**_

It was all he had wanted not hours ago, but he couldn’t handle it now that he had gotten his wish ( _the universe always got the last laugh_ ).

He ran. He ran like a child afraid the small, friendly dog on the corner of the block because it might suddenly snap and transform into a feral beast.

He heard that wrong voice call out in confusion behind him, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He kept running and running until he realized he was halfway back to his apartment again.

The newspaper stand was just up ahead. He should have grabbed a paper on his way past the first time, but he’d been more than a little absent at that time. He didn’t even remember passing it, but knew he must have. Paranoid of Rorschach’s mask sticking to his face, he ducked into a lonely web of back alley paths (his scarf was missing) and came out the other end as Walter.

Bernard was in the process of closing the stand. He looked thinner ( _younger_ ) than Walter remembered. He was kind enough to let Walter peruse the newspapers before he finished, citing the front page article of the Gazette as “a darn shame” and “unbelievable.” He did not seem to recognize Walter’s civilian face. He took a look at the suggested article.

Every piece of information he’d been trying not to acknowledge now stared at him critically from the void. Everything slid into place, clicking painfully as he realized one of the many realities he was trying to avoid.

The paper read March 27th, 1964. Kitty Genovese’s face stared back accusingly from the front page.


	3. Uncanny Valley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walter continues trying to find a grip in this new world. Nite Owl brings a peace offering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of my already posted chapters. All future chapters will be added much slower in comparison.
> 
> Thanks for the comments so far guys. I love hearing feedback. =]

Tranquility permeated the mesh of confusion. A strand of understanding wound tight around the spindle until it was honeycomb caked. The spider watched from the safety of its corner as it wrapped its thrashing prey.

New York stood still; time slowed to a tangible crawl. The paper was replaced upon its shelving, an earnest thanks given to the tender, pleasantries exchanged, and feet guided along a consciously chosen path for the first time that night.

It all led back to one conclusion. Lack of genocide, the state of his (not yet) apartment, the presence of the previous tenant Charles Calvin (he’d liked the idea of following in the footsteps of someone with his father’s name), Shairp and Bernard’s youth, his own youth, Genovese staring from a newspaper marked in the year 1964: time travel had been the correct hypothesis after all. He’d just entertained the wrong direction.

Far more enlightening was that this was the exact night he had created Rorschach from the scraps of fabric of the victim’s forsaken dress. A fitting and eloquent reminder of his mission. Of why Walter became Rorschach. He would witness its naissance. Perhaps it would reinforce the importance of his duty. Make him whole again.

Rorschach’s mask returned in some vacuous alley, preparing for a kind of mise en abyme. Rorschach watching the conception of Rorschach. Would only be more fitting were it infinitely recursive. Perhaps one day this Rorschach would observe its past-self conceived as well?

A couple decades later and he still remembered the trodden path. His second apartment of many. There was a certain level pride invested in this one beyond the construction of Rorschach. The first domicile he’d ever lived in was a temporary communal housing complex the home had installed him into when he began work at sixteen. A couple years later he’d saved up enough to lease his own place. His first act of true independence.

( _Except did it really matter when the world is in such disarray? The self-serving drivel of liberals about self-actualization. What did it matter when death is around the corner and children are raised with hate instead of love? What did it matter in a dog-eat-dog world—_ )

Reality wasn’t done playing tricks on him yet though. The apartment was empty upon arrival. A vacuum where there should have been a table, a hotplate, a pair of scissors, and a working man. Decades later he still remembered the resistance of sealing latex as heated metal shaped it into a weapon. In their place was more unknown furniture, and an unknown man was sleeping in an unknown bed.

The world was hazy as he climbed back onto the roof. He felt dizzy again, like he had upon the revelation in Calvin’s (his) apartment. He couldn’t understand. That was it. That was the answer. It’s why New York wasn’t destroyed. It’s why everyone was younger, why the newspaper said— why the restaurant was— why Ni— why—

He’d have understood if there was only a missing man. A simple (ha) replacement of mind would lead to a lack of separate physical self. But that did not explain the unidentified man sleeping in the bed. It didn’t explain the presence of a bloodstained undershirt covered only by a musty, bloodstained mackintosh coat. A set of prison leggings instead of familiar suit pants. A lack of hat and the wrong shoes. Body replacement also did not explain—

Had Manhattan changed something else? Sent Daniel back farther than him: had he caused some change? A ridiculous thought that Daniel could have any effect on his living situation. Perhaps it was some result of Manhattan’s understanding of time. If Rorschach were to meet him in the future, perhaps the difference of conversations would change how he acted in the past – but no, Walter was fairly certain that wasn’t the case. Manhattan was a puppet like everyone else. Just a puppet that could see the strings. The world would play out the same.

( _But even that theory still didn’t explain—_ )

“There you are.”

The wrong voice in the wrong costume arose from in front of him. He hadn’t even been paying attention to his surroundings enough to notice the movement of the man’s climbing. He barely prevented the jump that wanted to spasm down his spine. He was inordinately glad he was ‘Rorschach’ in that moment, however much he actually felt like Rorschach.

“You forgot your scarf back there.”

It was a deep timbre not catalogued within his memory, outside the man’s normal vocal range, yet uncannily the right cadence. Youth did not explain it away; it had not sounded this way when Rorschach had met him.

“Hello? You feeling alright?”

“Fine.” He said on autopilot. There was tar in the gears. Grime built up from the last couple days ( _decades_ ). Cogs were catching and sputtering as they tried in vain to move forward, caught in the blockage.

“… Do you want your scarf back?”

He forced his eyes to focus, not wanting to encourage more worried intrusion. A menacing raptor held out a dirty white scarf in the least threatening manor he could imagine. Just held it out, balanced loosely upon a sharp-tipped gloved hand. There was an amused (or was it anxious) smile rested just behind the lip of fabric. Rorschach could not see his eyes; this mask’s goggles were tinted like a car’s window and as dark, chocolate brown as the rest of his sharp and armored costume. Even the utility belt was camouflaged into the woodwork; everything brown and gritty and dark: perfect for blending into the night.

He nodded, not trusting his voice on more than one word at a time, and took the proffered item. He mechanically went through the motions of wrapping it around his neck so as to buy himself a couple more seconds, to appear normal and in control, but they did him little good. Words were buzzing in his head, none of them clear or clean enough to grasp. Another language entirely. Desires sat right behind that, just as confused and unclear.

“It was nice to meet another mask.” Walter tried to hold back the shudder that wanted to erupt in response. Doesn’t know— he doesn’t _know_ —

The figure ( _Nite Owl, his name is Nite Owl_ ) was turning away, leaving him. Leaving him alone. Running away. He had to say something. Had to—

“Nice to meet you, too.”

He’s not sure how the words managed to bubble forth from the collective grime clogging his system, but there they were. Like a peace offering. Like a sacrifice. Nite Owl looked over his shoulder, grin lop-sided but honest. Something about that grin had him adding, “Would not be opposed to meeting again.”

It sounded juvenile. Begging conceived of muddled wishes and fear of loss. A child seeking a promise from an adult that they wouldn’t disappear. That they would meet again. That they would come back for him.

Nite Owl’s laugh echoed. It wasn’t until he spoke that Walter realized it was all in his head. That the monotone growl he now used out of uncontrollable habit crushed any lilt of longing from its presence. “Nor would I. I tend to wander this side of the city most nights. Feel free to drop in anytime.”

An amused chuckle as he walked away. “Again.” And he was gone.

He didn’t overload this time, he did _not_ , but his mind did blank with the numerous unknown possibilities and confused information. Leaning against a roof access staircase railing (he must’ve started climbing down at some point, given up on forward movement and taken a moment to regain his strength), he gathered his thoughts again. Tried to gather his thoughts again. He wanted a journal to write in, to have the solidity and easy access to memories past, but made due with his mind. It was just another case. There were known quantities and mysteries. If he put them all together, an answer should reveal itself.

1985\. Early November. Day of masks passed with another death. Original Silk Spectre only one left of maiden generation. Advent to the end times. Wrong about Mask Killer. Set up. Fell for it. Foolish. Stupid. Nite Owl staged prison rescue with second Silk Spectre hanging off arm.

Trail led to Adrian Veidt. Ozymandias. Smartest man in the world. Veidt killed half of New York thirty five minutes before arrival. No chance. Failure.

Bowing. Cowed, craven behavior from everyone. Typical of Manhattan, expected of Juspeczyk, disappointing of Dreiberg. Knew it was coming. Was no longer taken in by delusions. Saw world for what it was. No more rose-tinted sight. Including extracurricular interests. Wasn’t surprising.

Was surprised by presence in cold. Not supposed to be there. Compromised. Safe. Should’ve been comforting Juspeczyk inside. Affair had been confirmed. She was broken as the little birds he used to foster. Perfect fit. Nothing to be envious of. Wasn’t child anymore. Did not envy taken toy—taken friend.

Watching. Being watched. Couldn’t be Rorschach anymore. No city to infest. People had to know. Wouldn’t believe him. Reputation was ruined. Would probably make it worse. But world had to know—

Blood. Sickening blood. Dogs had been an act of mercy. Of anger. By his own hand. Fire hid the blood. Hid her blood. Hid his blood. Had to replace coat or he’d go crazy. Watched man’s jugular slit by supposed friend. True order of world. Paid life back at half price. Discount congealed below doorway.

Blood. Not the blood of opponent or enemy or foe or victim. Blood of a friend. Blood—

Absence. Blood and absence. Missing. Evidence of pain and torture and blood. Must’ve hurt. Must’ve been hell and there was the evidence right in front of him. How could he possibly ignore or forget that kind of pain—

Hadn’t faltered. Hadn’t thought twice. Didn’t cower or hesitate or doubt. Conviction in face of death. Don’t understand why. Uncharacteristic. White knight, but self-serving. Occupied child’s role in stage play. Put up obligatory struggle against Veidt and no more. Indulged monologue. Questioned evidence before eyes until forced to accept truth. Chose to play ignorant. Game of owl and mouse for him. Distracted by warmth of seeing Dreiberg in costume again. Wrong reasons, right results. Affliction common in masks. Hazard of profession.

Darkness. Miasma. Shadow. Words. Death.

Supposed to be death. Woke up March 27th 1964. Everything reverted to that time. But not clothes. Not mind. Not memories. Previous tenant in Shairp’s apartment. Unknown tenant in this apartment. Should be there. Should all be there. Wasn’t. Why wasn’t it?

Blood in snow. Absence of Rorschach. Variation in Nite Owl’s costume and voice. These things didn’t fit the puzzle. They were the keys to solving this case; he just had to figure out where the locks were hidden.

In the end he decided he had all the answers he could gather for the night. The bars would tell him nothing about where a nobody named Walter Kovacs lived. Wouldn’t be able to tell him why Nite Owl’s costume was different than he remembered (why his _voice_ was different). What his purpose in this different world was. There was little else that could be analyzed meaningfully (that he could think of or wanted to think of) that couldn’t be done tomorrow.

He recognized the familiar exhaustion, the remnants of whatever Manhattan had done to his body, heightened again by his inability to calm or organize or control his confusion and resultant emotional turmoil. It was scattering his focus. He had no wish to fall asleep on the metal grating of a fire escape, but then again it wasn’t like he had anywhere else to rest his eyes. He didn’t know where he lived in this variation world. If he still lived. If he was still _him…_

Afterlife was still a prime candidate right behind time travel, becoming more and more preferable every second.

He got his limbs to move through sheer stubborn willpower, a destination in mind. There was an abandoned dormitory not too far from there. Slated for demolition in early 1965; old corpse found buried in the foundation. Cat meowed, indicating Nathanial Penn as the suspect. Rorschach left him for the police. It was the first case Nite Owl and Rorschach worked together. The old rooms and handful of stripped beds would provide him more comfort and less disgrace than a rooftop.

Stowing the mask for what would hopefully be the last time that night, he stumbled his way against brick walls through a braided maze of alleys memorized as instinct. The building was still standing when he arrived, for now. Another nail for time travel. At least there were some memories that matched up with reality.

He wasn’t the only squatter, but there weren’t so many that he had to make his presence known. He slipped into a small, dark room that reminded him too much of childhood and fell asleep in the open air of mold and mildew.

***

_Grass cutting into thighs. Sun bright with rays that stitched warming comfort into skin._

_Empty field in forest. Fairytale quality. Isolated, but not alone. Companion toad nestled by his ankle._

_The child relaxed backwards into the welcoming gravel and opened his arms to embrace the sun._

_He was joined by a dark-toned bird with human skin beneath the leather. Lazy smile outshining the warmth of the sun._

_“Hello, officer.” He said to the bird-man with no feathers, sitting up straight again as the authority figure took a place next to him with legs crossed._

_His new companion just smiled, and reached to stroke the toad’s head. The toad arched its head like an appreciative cat and nestled between their legs like a bridge._

_Ominous birds began to flock in the sky. Their dark wings would block out the sun as they passed._

_“What brings you here?” He asked as he watched the birds take over the world. Too quickly they had multiplied enough to completely block out the sun._

_As the world was engulfed in hungry shadows, a voice so wrong it sent shivers down his spine came from the toad’s mouth: “Enjoying the day.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I write really weird dream sequences.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't seem to come up with a decent summary for this fic to save my life.


End file.
